


Strangers in Death

by krinaphobia



Category: Greek and Roman Mythology, The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Achilles didn't know Patroclus, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Homer was a fanboy who messed up their fates, M/M, there really aren't tags for these things
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-19
Updated: 2015-06-24
Packaged: 2018-04-05 04:31:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4166007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/krinaphobia/pseuds/krinaphobia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The dead continue on through the memories of the living. But what if those memories change? In the Underworld, Patroclus and Achilles are complete strangers who discover an old blind poet retold their story, casting them as lovers. Now Patroclus is bound to a spoiled prince and needs a solution so he can rest in peace. </p><p>Or: Homer was a fanboy and Patroclus has to deal with the consequences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Just a weird "what if" story. I'm hoping to post some more star-crossed lovers Achilles and Patroclus soon! I am playing fast and loose with the Iliad, and I apologize to Homer and all my former classics teachers. Sorry, guys.

“What’s with the kid?” Ajax asked. Achilles took his time answering. There was no rush in the Elysian Fields. There was not much of anything, as far as he was concerned. Perhaps it was because he had died in the heat of battle. Perhaps it was some part of his soul that would always be a soldier. Whatever the reason, Achilles found it impossible to drift into the dream-like state most souls fell into after a decade or so. It was not laziness that made Achilles slow to answer Ajax’s question. It was annoyance.

  
“I said, who’s the kid?” Ajax repeated, after what could have been a moment, an hour, or maybe a few days. It didn’t matter how long it took him to ask. The kid wasn’t going anywhere.

  
“Just ignore him,” Achilles said tightly, trying not to look himself.

  
“He’s been following you for ages.”

  
“Ajax, if I wanted endless commentary, I’d go find Odysseus.”

  
Ajax shrugged his enormous shoulders. “Suit yourself. He looks familiar is all.”

  
“Shut up,” Achilles said through gritted teeth. He longed for a spear and something to stick it though. He looked over his shoulder. The soul was still there.

  
\---

  
Patroclus didn’t know what he had done to deserve this. He’d lived a quiet life before the war, had fought decently, and had died in battle. What more could the gods want from him? He was no one, a nameless face on the sidelines of history, and so had fallen in with the host of tired souls seeking peace in the fields of eternal rest. He’d found the shades of his mother and unborn sister and been content.

  
But something had begun to gnaw at him, like an itch he could not scratch. He ignored it, trying to lose himself in the long grasses and silent streams of the Underworld. He had no unfinished business, owed no debts. There was nothing to keep him from falling into the endless slumber of the dead. Yet he could not sleep.

  
At his mother’s urging, he went to the palace and joined the long line of souls seeking judgment. Eons seemed to pass before he found himself in the dark throne room, Persephone looking down at him with onyx eyes.

  
“You have been judged already. Be gone,” Hades said with a wave of his hand, a shadow beside his fiery wife.

  
“Wait,” the queen said, and her voice sand through the room. “I know this one. Patroclus.”

  
Patroclus was stunned that the lady of the Underworld knew his name, and he was only more shocked when she laughed, like a chiming bell of warning.

  
“Oh, little one, you have been granted a miracle. Not many see their fates changed after death.”

  
Patroclus opened his mouth to speak, but no words would come. Persephone continued regardless.

“Souls continue on afterlife through the memories of those who remember them. Memories of you have changed, Patroclus, and so has your soul.”

  
That explained the constant nagging, but did nothing towards alieving it. “My lady…what should I do?”

  
“Find the one your soul has been tied to. Go find Achilles.”

  
\---

  
Achilles eventually had to leave Ajax behind. For one thing, the warrior was clearly slowing down, finally finding rest in the peaceful fields. For another, he would stop nagging Achilles about the soul that continued to follow him.

  
He had wondered to the furthered corners of the fields, even towards the pits where punished souls burned for eternity. Everywhere he went, the other soul followed him.

  
He knew who the boy was, though calling him boy was unfair considering he looked to be about Achilles’s age. Achilles had seen him die in battle against Hector, entirely unmatched despite a string of impressive victories. That had been the final straw for Achilles, the moment he’d realized he had no other way out of the war than to kill Hector and be done with it.

  
It hadn’t been about the boy, it had been about him, wanting to be free of the damn Greeks and their constant demands on him. If the boy thought he owed Achilles something, he was mistaken.

  
Unable to take it any longer, he turned to the soul, crushing a lily under his heel.

  
“Go away!” he snapped. “You have no debt. Leave me in peace.”

  
The boy met his eyes and for the first time Achilles saw he looked every bit as miserable and annoyed as he himself felt.

  
“Trust me,” the boy said, “I’m no happier about this than you are.”

  
\---

  
Achilles. Patroclus had repeated the name to himself in shock. Achilles, greatest of the Greeks. Shining and golden in the sun. Patroclus had seen him twice in battle, and both times he was amazed that such power and violence could be contained in a human form. But he had never spoken to the great fighter.

  
Persephone continued to speak, an unearthly glimmer in her dark eyes. “Legend says you were close friends with him. Some say lovers.”

  
It was all Patroclus could do to keep from laughing. He’d killed a few Trojans, but the idea of him appearing in stories, let alone as the beloved of the world’s greatest warrior, was ridiculous at best. “Where did they get that? How could that happen?”

  
Persephone smiled, showing sharp teeth. “He killed Hector after your death. An old blind man took that story and, as they say, ran with it. He wanted to humanize Achilles.”  
“But, I thought stories said he was part god…”

  
“Yes, humans are funny like that. Regardless, your soul is now bound to his.”

  
“What do I do?” Patroclus, wishing his voice did not sound so pathetic.

  
“I’m sure that’s not my problem. I’d never want to get in the way of true love.” She laughed again, and Patroclus retreated as quickly as he dared.

  
\---

  
“What do you want then?” Achilles demanded.

  
“Patroclus,” the boy mumbled.

  
“What?”

  
“I’m Patroclus,” he said clearer. “From Sparta. I followed Menelaus in the war. But now people say,” he hesitated, “they say I was one of yours.”

  
“Is that what this is all about? You were mistaken for a Myrmidon? You should be honored.”

  
The boy, Patroclus, seemed to grind his teeth. “I knew it. You’re just a spoiled prince.”

  
Achilles took a step closer. Had he been alive, his blood would have risen, driving him onward ready for battle. But in death, he remained as cold as ever. Disgusted, both with his non-life and the boy in front of him, he shrugged and turned away.

  
“Do you feel changed at all since you arrived here?” Patroclus asked.

  
“I’m less inclined to kill things, if that’s what you mean.”

  
“You can’t kill anything here. We’re all dead.”

  
“I know! Gods, why can’t you just leave me in peace?”

  
Patroclus seemed to clear his throat, a useless gesture but it caught Achilles’s attention. The boy still had human habits. He was no closer to fading away into the sleep of death than Achilles himself was.

  
“Our fates have been rewritten,” Patroclus said.

  
“We have no fates anymore.”

  
“I’m repeating what Queen Persephone told me herself. Mortal memory has changed. They remember us differently.”

  
“If they remember me as any less of a fighter,” Achilles muttered.

  
Patroclus smiled tightly. “Come with me.”

  
\---

  
The old man sat alone on one of the few rocks in the fields. He gazed off happily into the distance with milky blue eyes. Patroclus recognized the look of a soul already half faded into death.

  
“Achilles, this is the poet. I haven’t been able to get his name out of him.”

  
Before Achilles could reply, the old man spoke. “Ah! Sing, O muse, the rage of Achilles…” He looked pleased with himself. Achilles looked from the old man to Patroclus.

  
“Explain.”

  
Patroclus nudged the bard. “What was that part about Patroclus?”

  
The old man grumbled. “It’s not just something you can skip into, my boy. You have to work your way into it.”

  
“Try your best."

  
“Hm, let me see.” Then man paused a moment, or perhaps a day, and when he spoke again, his voice had a different quality; deeper, with more weight. “Then said Achilles in his great grief, ‘I would die here and now, in that I could not save my comrade. He has fallen far from home, and in his hour of need my hand was not there to help him. What is there for me? Return to my own land I shall not, and I have brought no saving neither to Patroclus nor to my other comrades…’”

  
“I never said that,” Achilles interrupted, though the old man continued with his story.

  
“You should hear the part where you and Priam are sobbing over me and Hector,” said Patroclus.

  
“I never said or did any of that!”

 

Patroclus shrugged. “Does it matter? We continue on though the memories of the living. This is the memory they have of us now.”

  
Achilles kicked at some daisies and stalked off. Patroclus glanced at the old man, who was still rambling on, and--as was becoming his habit--followed after Achilles.

  
\---

  
It wasn’t fair. Achilles dearly wished he could feel some of that rage the old men had spoken of, not this tepid annoyance. It wasn’t fair. His legend had been taken from him, passed on to some boy from Sparta who died like countless others, breathing his last at the feet of Hector. Achilles had not died, young and in his prime, to be remembered as a weakling who destroyed his greatest foe for something as pointless as love.

  
As if reading his mind, Patroclus spoke up. “If it’s any consolation, you could have been remembered as a soulless monster who lived to kill.”

  
“I’d be feared, at least.”

  
“Fear, maybe, but not respected. Any mindless beast can kill. But a man, capable of love and grief? He’ll be remembered as a hero.”

  
Achilles turned sharply. “Is that how I am remembered?” He tried to hide how desperately he needed the answer.

  
Patroclus hesitated. He seemed to study a tangle of roses nearby. Thornless, like all flowers in the eternal fields. Achilles hated them. This was no place for a fighter.

  
“I’ve heard the whole story the old man tells,” Patroclus finally said. “You’re the hero, without doubt.”

  
Achilles thought about that. He could sacrifice a bit of his dignity if the story played well. “I really loved you?”

  
“In his retelling, yes.” There was something in Patroclus’s voice that Achilles couldn’t read.

  
“Hm.” Achilles look at Patroclus, studying the boy’s sandy hair and scattered freckles.

  
“What’s that look for?”

  
“I mean,” Achilles looked away. “I could do worse, right?”

  
“Oh, you are unbelievable. I’m leaving.”

  
“You can’t really leave, can you?”

  
“Watch me.” Patroclus walked off, the grass parting around him. Achilles chased after him.

  
“Wait! I’m sorry.”  
Patroclus stopped and looked back. “What did you say?”

  
Achilles found his heart was racing in a way he thought he would not feel again. “I said I’m sorry. You were right. I was a spoiled prince. But maybe you were right about our fates too.”

  
“Do you mean it?”

  
“Mean it? The son of Peleus does not apologize don’t apologize lightly!”

  
“No, I mean about our fates. You feel changed too, don’t you? Go on, admit it.”

  
“I guess I feel…restless. I miss battle.”

  
Something like disappointment crossed Patroclus’s face. “That figures, I suppose.”

  
Achilles put a hand on his chest. He could have sworn he felt blood pumping again. Had chasing after Patroclus done that?

  
“Let’s make a deal,” he said. “If we’re going to be…whatever we are…”

  
“Retroactive soul mates?” Patroclus suggested.

  
“Yes, that. If we’re going to be…whatever you just said, you need to prove yourself.”

  
“Prove myself?! I died in battle against Hector!”

  
Achilles shrugged. “That’s a start. But how are you at running?”

  
Patroclus blinked, another needless human reaction. It comforted Achilles somehow. He was not alone in his wakefulness in the realm of the dead.

  
“I was the fastest runner of my age,” Achilles said.

  
“Yes, I heard the stories. There’s no way I can beat you.”

  
“I’ll give you a head start then. On your marks, get set, go.”

  
With an exasperated sigh, Patroclus took off running. He had decent form, Achilles noted, and given that he was already dead, he would not tire. After reasonable head start, Achilles chased after him.

  
His heart beat strongly in his chest and his feet seemed to hardly touch the ground. This was what he had missed, Achilles suddenly realized. Not the gore and grime of battle. Not an enemy’s life bleeding away by his hand. He’d missed the pursuit of greatness. He’d missed the chase.

  
Now, perhaps, he had a new target worth striving for.

  
\---

  
Up ahead, though with the gap between them rapidly closing, Patroclus dashed through the long grass, gasping for air he did not need. He knew it would only be moments before Achilles caught him, but he was not even concerned about his eminent defeat.

  
For the first time in longer than he could remember, the ache in his soul was gone. For the first time, he was where he was supposed to be.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Achilles lived to achieve glory, so how is he supposed to spend his death lying around in a field? Patroclus continues to be bound to a complete loser.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't expecting to write more of this story, but I'm between novel drafts right now and I needed to write something! Thank you everyone who has read the story so far, especially those of you who have given kudos!

“This,” Achilles announced, “is boring.”

With a sigh, Patroclus completed yet another flower crown and threw it with an expert flick of the wrist. It landed on Achilles’s head. “Well, we live in an endless field of flowers. There’s not a whole lot of entertainment to be had.”

It had been going so well, all things considered. They got along beautifully as long as Achilles kept his mouth shut. Which, Patroclus was learning, was never very long.

“There has to be something else down here. This is the Underworld for gods’ sake.”

“How about we just gaze into each other’s eyes, fall blissfully in love, and rest in peace?”   
Patroclus grumbled, falling back in the grass. Achilles leaned over to look at him.

“That’s really how you want to go?”

“Yup.”

“Falling asleep in some field and never waking up again.”

“Sounds fantastic.” Patroclus yawned. “I’m so tired.”

“Now listen here.” Achilles grabbed Patroclus by the front of his tunic and pulled him to his feet. Patroclus wondered if he’d always been so strong or if the limits of human strength did not apply to the dead. His guess was a bit of both. “You’re not allowed to go anywhere without me.”

Patroclus knew it was true, although not on any authority of Achilles. If the two of them where going to find eternal rest, they were going to have to achieve it together. Somehow.

He often wondered if there was some way he could return to the realm of the living as a ghost. Even that seemed more restful than being dragged along by Achilles through the Elysian Fields.

“Fine,” Patroclus said. “How do you want to die then?”

Achilles let him go. “We’re already dead.”

“You know what I mean. Your final end. How would you want it?”

Achilles just shook his head and wandered away over the fields. Someday Patroclus was determined to just let him go and not follow after him. That wasn’t today. He chased after Achilles, falling into step beside him.

“What do you suppose is beyond the fields?” Achilles asked, not looking at Patroclus.

“The pits, I supposed. Where the wicked burn.”

“Boring. What else?”

Patroclus thought of the palace, and the terrifying majesty that was Persephone. Best to not give Achilles any ideas. He shrugged. "Out that way is the meadowlands. I started there before I had to find you."

"What's that like?"

"Fewer flowers and heros, otherwise much the same."

"You mean there's something more boring that this?"

Patroclus considered a nearby daffodil. There was something wonderful about flowers that would bloom into eternity. Something pure. They were free from the evils of the world, like age or decay or bullheaded stubbornness. Achilles, Patroclus felt certain, would not understand.

"That's all I know about. Unless you want to get into legend."

"We're in the lands of the dead. Why shouldn't we follow legend?"

"Achilles, the gods know the last thing I would do is inflate your ego, but if you were put here in the fields, I doubt there is a higher reward for anyone in the Underworld. Quit whining and be content!"

Achilles was clearly toward between being flattered and being annoyed. Patroclus wondered which one would win out.

"You were a farmer," Achilles said finally. "It's the only explanation."

"Of course I was a farmer! Practically everyone you fought alongside was a farmer, except perhaps the kings but even Odysseus had to work his own land."

"Only a farmer would be happy to sit in a field."

Patroclus gripped his hands into fists. "Then gods be praised, I've found a place where a farm boy is awarded above a prince."

Achilles didn't seem to hear. He never did when it didn't suit him. "Well I know another place down here. Something sure to be interesting."

"What," Patroclus said flatly.

Achilles grinned at him. Patroclus did not like that look at all. 

"Tartarus."

That was it. Patroclus knew. They were going and he had no choice.

In revenge, he didn’t tell Achilles about the ring of violets still caught in his hair.

\---

Achilles wasn’t sure what drove him to keep wandering the Underworld. He knew what had driven him in life: glory. He had never expected a long life, despite his parentage. To be a great warrior, he had to embrace mortality. And Achilles would not settle for anything less than great. 

But here, in this deathless realm, he was at a loss. Gone was the basic drive of kill or be killed. Gone was the nobler drive of amassing fame and renown before falling inevitably into the clutches of death. He had nothing left. So what was it that pushed him onwards?

His one comfort was that no matter he went, Patroclus was bound to follow him.

Perhaps it was an eternity before they reached the edge of the fields, perhaps it was a single afternoon. Either way, Achilles suddenly found sharp stones under his bare feet rather than grasses. He was startled by the pain, something he did not realize existed in this realm. Achilles looked out over a vast rocky plain and braced himself for the crossing.

“Hang on,” Patroclus said. Achilles looked back, expecting to find the boy shrinking back from the pain, but instead he was sitting on the edge of the grass and pulling up plants by their stems.

“What are you doing?” Achilles asked, though he expected no rational response. Patroclus had clearly lost his mind.

“Don’t you know how to weave baskets?”

Achilles knew a great many things. He knew how to adjust for the wind when throwing a spear. He knew how much blood an enemy could lose and still be a threat. He even knew a thing or two about women. Baskets had never come up.

Patroclus did seem to be doing something very quickly with his hands. Achilles leaned down for a better look. 

“I used to have to do this all the time on the farm,” Patroclus said.

“Make baskets? Why would we need baskets?”

Patroclus stopped and met Achilles’s eye, as unreadable as ever. He threw the object he was making at Achilles’s face. It bounced off his cheek and fell to the ground. Achilles stooped down and picked up what looked remarkably like the base of a sandal.

“No point suffering for the entire walk,” Patroclus said. “That’s what you were planning, wasn’t it?”

Achilles made no comment, though that had been his plan. Instead he sat down beside Patroclus and tried to copy the boy’s work. It took some time and Achilles was slow to learn. His usually agile fingers seemed to betray him. But in the end, they had two pairs of wearable sandals and they started off across the rocky wastes.

\---

Patroclus knew they were headed for nowhere, or at least he hoped they were. It would be far better than somehow reaching Tartarus. He had a pretty good idea why Achilles was so hellbent on getting there. He still had to be a hero and somehow hadn’t gotten it through his head that the Underworld had no need for heroes. Any war to be fought down here had been finished in ages immemorial. Any beast they might find was in the service of Hades, and hardly a threat to a pair of shades anyway. There was nothing to find out here but trouble.

And, thinking it over, Patroclus had no doubt that Achilles would find that. 

The vast plain gave way to craggy mountains with sides to sheer to climb. Achilles skirted around the seemingly endless range and Patroclus followed after. 

“What do you know about Tartarus?” Achilles finally said, the first words spoken between them in some time, and possibly the first spoken in that region since the dawn of time.

“They say it’s where the Titans are kept,” Patroclus answered. “The parents of the gods. As far below the Underworld as the Earth is below the Heavens.”

Achilles was quite for some time.

“There’s no way you can fight them,” Patroclus finally said.

“Why not? I fought a river once.”

“No you didn’t, that’s just from the old man’s story.”

Achilles paused and looked at Patroclus. “No, I swear I remember it.”

Patroclus shrugged. “I was dead by then, don’t ask me.”

“No,” Achilles insisted. “Is my memory changing? Is that possible?”

Patroclus walked onward, trying to find a pass between the mountains. “Well, does Odysseus go around saying it took him ten years to get home and he made love to a sea witch?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.” Patroclus forgot that Achilles actually knew all the generals of the war and probably spoke with them in the Underworld. “I don’t know. Think of things you remember.”

Patroclus took the lead now, Achilles following behind him. There had to be a way through the mountains, he told himself, though he had no reason to believe that there was.

“My mother was a goddess,” Achilles said. Patroclus had heard such rumors around camp.

“I’ve heard people say that.”

“So it’s true, right?”

“People seemed to believe it was.”

“People believe we were lovers and look where that got us.”

Patroclus stopped and looked around at Achilles, surprised to see the young warrior looking visibly upset. “Well,” Patroclus said hesitantly, “you were sort of a legend even when you were alive.”  
“But what if my memories are wrong now? What if I remember what people believe about me? I remember getting trained by a centaur!”

“In all fairness,” Patroclus said as calmly as he could, “we are in the Underworld and I’ve seen Hades and Persephone myself. I’m willing to believe in a centaur.” He hesitated. “What about me? Do you remember anything about me?”

Achilles studied him, silent. “No.” He said flatly. “Nothing at all.” 

Patroclus turned away. “Your memories are fine, Achilles. When you start having memories about me, that’s when we’ll know you’ve lost it.”

\---

They stopped to rest on a ledge, and Achilles could not recall how long they had been walking. Neither of them needed rest, at least not physically, but the unpassable mountains had begun to wear on them both.

Patroclus lay down and curled up, but Achilles could tell from the way he pushed around a few small stones that he was still no closer to sleep than Achilles. Neither of them would find eternal rest any time soon.

Achilles sat with his back against a boulder and looked up at the empty sky. Patroclus was right, though Achilles would not say those words aloud. As long as he had no recollection of the two of them, there was no reason to believe his memories were flawed.

And yet, there was something he could not shake. An image, brief and half-formed, like a waking dream. Patroclus in his armor, shining and golden in the sun.

Achilles folded his arms. It was nothing. A delusion. 

And yet.

He got up and began pacing back and forth. On the ground nearby, Patroclus did not stir. But in Achilles’s memory, he was everywhere. In the halls of his father’s palace. On Mount Pelion training under Chiron. On the ship bound for Troy. None of it was real, Achilles told himself over and over. Patroclus was a stranger. He was not there. But the more and more Achilles tried to push Patroclus from his memories, the harder it became to think of anything else. Patroclus swimming towards in in the cool ocean waves. Patroclus lying beside him under the stars, tracing constellations with a slender finger. Patroclus looking at him and smiling in a way that lit up his eyes like they were stars themselves.

“He wasn’t there!” Achilles shouted. His voice echoed off the mountain walls and Patroclus sat up, staring at him. But before Patroclus could speak, Achilles’s voice echoed back to them, strangely changed.

“He was there,” repeated the voice, “he was there.” Laughter followed, cold and sharp as the mountains themselves. “Oh little shade. You’ve wandered so far.”

Achilles looked around for the source of the voice. Patroclus looked terrified. “Who are you?”

“Those who seek me can never forget. Those who forget can never seek me.”

“If it’s a sphinx,” Patroclus said, “you distract it and I’ll run.”

The laughter came again. “My name is Mnemosyne. And you won’t run. You can’t abandon your true love.”

Achilles stood defiantly, ready for attack, as if a disembodied voice in the mountains of the Underworld was just another enemy to be cut down. It was easier to think of it that way.

Patroclus spoke up more loudly this time. “We don’t want a fight. We’re just looking for Tartarus.”  
“Well why didn’t you say so?” said the voice, and for the first time Achilles realized it sounded female. Mnemosyne. He knew that name from his mother’s stories. She was a Titaness, a mother of the gods.

There was a rumble. The ground shook so violently beneath Achilles’s feet that he was thrown to the ground. Something covered him and he realized rocks might be falling. He reached out to shield Patroclus, only to find that the boy was already huddling over them.

After some time, there was silence, with just hint of laughter dancing on the wind. Patroclus pulled away and Achilles sat up to look around. Behind them, the mountain had split in two. The rubble had fallen like stairs, down into an endless void.

“The gate to Tartarus,” Patroclus said quietly. “Should we go?”

Achilles didn’t answer. He was already starting the descent downwards, eager to leave behind his doubts at the surface. He knew who he was. He was Achilles, a hero who died with eternal glory. He had no time for doubt.

Soon the darkness became absolute. There was no light, there was no sound, save for Patroclus’s footsteps following after him.


End file.
